At some point, when listening to people talk, you realize
that you weren't sure what to add to the conversation,
that what scrawls itself on the back of your throat
is better expressed in the rasp, smoke-filled voice
of pen to paper, of lines stretched out like serpents
ready to bite. It speaks louder, there, silent, written,
than to speak up at all. The lungs feel heavy, paralyzed.
There's the distinct and uncomfortable feeling
of being listened to, nearly as unsettling
as being ignored, and you opt for the latter,
letting the lines reach out for you, being vocal
by the act of putting yourself to the side
and just watching, writing, letting go.